Unsaid
by Smoky
Summary: A take on what might have happened in those little moments after Mireille begged Kirika to live.


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_Next stop on the ride around writer's block. This one's been on the brain a while … best to get it out there, ugly as it may be._

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own _Noir.

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'Come on.'

Mireille's whisper is nearly lost in the echo of the huge hall.

Kirika's wrist is damp.

There are tears that neither of them can explain. Now is not the time for explaining things. Kirika can feel the heat beneath her, even so far away. She heard no sound when Altena fell – no sound but the rumble of depths of sacrificial hellfire. This will not be her grave, this is not her time. She knows now she that she must go back.

The grip around her arm is tighter than death. Tears are spilling freely down Mireille's cheeks – her eyes pierce through Kirika, still begging, an unspoken need in an unspoken question.

Kirika cannot speak, but the pained smile she gives Mireille speaks for her.

_Yes._

They are both injured, sore, they have both been shot, and grazed and wounded, but from somewhere their weary bodies summon the strength to push through. Strength from each other. Mireille staggers backwards, feeling Kirika's weight steadily find another support. Another moment, and Kirika has a hold of solid ground; she is pulling herself out. Mireille still holds her tight with both hands; she will not let go, not until they have both stumbled several metres away from what was almost Kirika's death.

The girl is weak. Instinctively clutching her side, Kirika's body wants nothing more than to collapse, into Mireille's arms, onto the ground. Even this far, in safety, Mireille still has hold of her. The tears make everything blurry. A subtle shift of grip and Mireille is clutching Kirika's battered body in a desperate hug, as if it is the only thing that keeps her standing.

She has been so strong, all her life, cold and remote for the sake of survival alone, and here now is her release – dreamlike, in moments, in heartbeats, in this high cold lonely hall, catching a faint gust of heat, the heat of Kirika's body pressed against hers, and suddenly she finds that the tears will not stop.

They sway on the spot in silence. Kirika bears her partner's hold along with the pain, and lets her cry. Something about this moment feels unexpected, but quite as if she also has been waiting for this all her life. The grip of the past and her hollow life is falling away, and she is held now in a kind of trembling embrace.

A promise of redemption.

At last, Mireille steps back, her breath hitching.

'Kirika … Kirika, are you all right?'

It seems a strange question, echoing in the high hall where moments before there had echoed cries of betrayal and vengeance.

A strange question, after their struggle.

_You could have died._

_You would have died, for all our sins._

_You would have died, for me._

_I nearly lost you …_

'Are you all right?'

Too simple.

Kirika tries to smile again, against the pain. She has never given in so easily and isn't about to start now.

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Upon the cold stone floor, Mireille fusses over Kirika, tending to her wound with what little she can find as makeshift bandages. She cannot for a moment take her fingers from Kirika's skin – as if needing to reassure herself constantly that Kirika is there, that she is alive, that she has not been and will not be lost.

They do not waste words. Kirika hiccups, an involuntary spasm of pain as Mireille's fingers flicker carefully over her wound.

Mireille blinks the redness out of her eyes. She works quickly, even though there is no urgency in their surrounds. The fight is over and the Manor is dead, these two young women the only breathing things in all its walls. But darkness will soon be upon them and they must get out of this place. It is only by newborn concern for Kirika's well-being that they still remain hunched together upon the ground.

'All right now?'

'Ummm.' Kirika pushes herself gingerly to her feet, steadied by Mireille's grip.

'Come on …'

An arm around Mireille's neck, resting her weight against the Corsican's solid warmth. Mireille's arm goes around her waist, and her grip is possessive, protective.

They stand just beyond the door, and Mireille's lips twitch into a shaky smile. Right in the midst of all the unreality, she wants to make a joke.

_We've got an audience to please._

The Manor may be finished, but there are still faces to which they must answer.

Noir is coming out of the dark.

Together they take the stairs, in measured steps. Where earlier they had run through in careless seconds, they tread slowly, laboriously. Wading through the depths of their sins, but this time a pilgrimage to reach the other side.

Now is not the time for speaking, for asking _why?_ or _how?_. Each step is weighed down with the day, with its twists and turns and revelations – betrayals; condemnations; ugly faces behind ugly truths; the pained closing of a chapter, and with it, opening promise for the future …

Just beyond that, too, a hint … a realisation of something, through touch and entreaty, that – just now – doesn't need to be put into words.

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End file.
